


Better

by parsnipit



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders RPF, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and patton is more than happy to give them to him, bc virgil wants cuddles, lots and lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Virgil is touch-starved and seeks Patton’s help. (i.e. that one super self-indulgent fic with lots of angst and cuddling.)





	Better

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: mentions of panic attacks, brief mentions of nsfw
> 
> beta’d by the admirable thuriweaver and randomslasher (extra thanks to randomslasher for suggesting this idea!)

Virgil doesn’t usually like being touched—it’s not  _ bad,  _ per se, it’s just  _ weird.  _ At first, he was too nervous around the others to touch them or be touched by them, and they respected that and they left him alone. And that was good, that was what they were  _ supposed  _ to do, but it became a—a habit of sorts, Virgil supposes. They don’t touch him and he doesn’t touch them and that’s the way it always has been and always will be. 

But sometimes—sometimes he sees Logan and Patton cuddling on the couch, or Roman resting a familiar hand on Logan’s back, or Patton ruffling Roman’s hair, and he  _ wants.  _ It’s a low, uncomfortable feeling that hovers somewhere between hunger and a miserable, constant ache. What would it be like to have their casual affection, their ease with each other, the warmth of their hands and the press of their bodies against his? On one hand, he longs for it—or at least he longs to know what it would be like.

On the other hand, he loathes it.

It’s needy—it’s needy and childish and pathetic. He’s done just fine all of these years, so clearly touch isn’t something he  _ needs.  _ It’s just something he wants. Sometimes. Occasionally. (A lot. It’s been getting worse. He’s been getting worse.)

But he chokes down those feelings (they taste like coffee grounds, bitter and far too strong) as he’s choked down so many others before, and he moves on. He cuddles the tiny stuffed cat that Patton had given him for his birthday and he wraps himself in heated blankets until he can pretend he’s hugging and being hugged. It’s stupid, but it’s all he’s got. 

He’s not going to wallow in self-pity about it, though. He’s over that shit. He’s got a job to do and it doesn’t involve fantasizing about cuddling, of all things. He’s fine. Totally fine.

Until, that is, June 6th. 

He’s just come down from a panic attack which, in itself, is not unusual. What’s unusual is the fact that he wants, more than anything else in the whole goddamn world, to be held. What the fuck. Usually it’s the complete opposite—he wants the others as far away from him as they can get until he feels safe. He doesn’t know why that’s changing now.

Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve more or less accepted him. They’ve given him their apologies (save Patton, who didn’t owe him any, the stellar fellow) and he’s given them his name and his grudging admiration and, perhaps, a teeny-tiny bit of his affection. He thought it was a step in the right direction.

But today, he thinks that perhaps it wasn’t, because that stupid, longing ache is settled firmly beneath his skin and he knows, he just  _ knows  _ that a hug from one of the others would soothe him more quickly than staring at the wall and counting breaths can today. Hugs aren’t an option, though. It’s not like he can just ask for one. That would be weird.

So. Choke that feeling down again.

For the rest of the day, however, it’s all that he can think about. Even after he’s calmed down and buried himself under his blankets—one heated  _ and  _ one weighted, today, he’s discovered that that feels even more like a hug—he can’t stop  _ wanting.  _

In the end, it’s Patton who sways him completely.

“Hey there, kiddo. We had an attack today, huh?” Patton asks, hovering in his doorway—the one that Virgil had grudgingly opened for him with a snap of his fingers, unwilling to remove himself from the safety of his blanket cocoon. “How ya doin’ in there?”

“Great,” Virgil says, his voice an unhappy rasp. “What do you want?”

Patton materializes a plastic water bottle and hands it to him. “I just wanted to check up on you—see how my favorite grouchy champ is, y’know?”

Virgil accepts the water bottle and wedges the lid between his back teeth, chewing irritably on it. “Yeah. I’m fine, so you can go.”

“Sure thing. But, uh—if there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just give me a holler, okay?”

Virgil does not give him a holler—not then, not a day later, not even a couple of weeks later—but the thought sticks with him.  _ Could  _ he ask Patton? If he really wanted to, could he? He’s (almost) sure that Patton wouldn’t have a problem with—with cuddling him, or whatever the fuck it is that Virgil needs to make this stupid longing go away.

Okay, but what if he  _ wasn’t  _ alright with that? Would he say so or would he just allow Virgil to guilt him into an uncomfortable situation? He seems to enjoy being close to the others—but they’re  _ them,  _ and Virgil is  _ him. _

So, Virgil decides, he can’t simply ask. It would be too humiliating and awful and terrifying—at least, the way things stand now. He thinks maybe he would die. But—but if he could figure out how Patton would respond _before_ he asked, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. 

He decides to test the waters. It’s nothing major, nothing big, nothing that Patton would take note of, really—or so, at least, he thought.. He allows their hands to brush over the dinner table, allows his knee to rest against Patton’s when they’re watching a movie, allows Patton to stand in his personal space for more than five seconds at a time. And Patton, well—Patton picks up on it. Despite what the others (and yes, Virgil too, on occasion) may think, he’s not stupid. In all honesty, he’s actually incredibly perceptive—

A fact for which, just this once, Virgil might be grateful, because after a few days, Patton begins returning his gestures. A hand on the small of his back when he’s standing and looking out of the commons’ window, an elbow nudging his when they’re washing dishes together, a poke to his shoulder to get his attention. And Virgil—

Virgil fucking loves it. Is it stupid to be so infatuated over basic human contact? Probably. Does he care? Absolutely not. As long as no one knows, he’ll savor everything he can get—every little brush of skin, every moment of pressure and warmth. 

However, there is a downside.

He had expected touch to soothe the insistent craving he’s been struggling with, but it doesn’t. No, on the contrary—it makes it worse. Much, much worse. Because he—greedy and selfish and terrible—only wants more. Every time Patton rests a hand on his shoulder, he wishes it would linger there longer than a few seconds, wishes he would knead the muscle or brush across the back of Virgil’s neck.

But Patton won’t do that without his permission, and Virgil’s still not desperate enough to ask him for it. Maybe he could start by—by slinging an arm across Patton’s shoulders or curling up next to him when they’re watching TV? That seems significantly more intimate, though. Touching shoulders and arms is friendly, sure, but this is one step closer to real, actual  _ cuddling  _ (and  _ god,  _ why does that make him  _ want  _ so much) and Virgil’s not sure he desperate enough to initiate anything.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to. 

They’re tucked up on the couch, both caught up in the novel that Thomas is currently reading, when Patton makes his move. Virgil’s taken to sitting right next to him on the couch, when he can, and not across the room. Not touching, but close enough  _ to  _ touch—an awkward invitation that Virgil thought Patton would never even notice, let alone take him up on.

But, again, Patton is more perceptive than he seems. He yawns and stretches and—oh, god, that’s cliché—lets his arm drop across Virgil’s shoulders. Virgil can see him watching out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment his heart swells with—with something. Patton’s being ridiculously careful, which means Virgil has to be, too. If he makes a single wrong move—anything to indicate that he’s uncomfortable in any way—Patton will move away from him, and that’s the very last thing he wants.

So he bolsters what little courage he has and forces himself to relax under the touch, leaning back into the couch and letting his side brush Patton’s. A beaming smile spreads across Patton’s face, but he doesn’t speak—thank god. Virgil’s neediness is embarrassing enough without being discussed.

And for a little while, he thinks he actually  _ will  _ get away without ever discussing it. If he just keeps nudging Patton in the right direction, then he can eventually get rid of his stupid wanting and act normally again. The problem is, he’s not certain he  _ can  _ stop wanting this. Patton is getting more confident with his touches, and Virgil is getting more comfortable with them, but none of it completely stops him from wanting more.

And then, one day, Patton corners him. Corners—ha. As though Patton could corner anything. It’s more of a slow shepherding, complete with big, soft eyes and bad puns, until he has Virgil sitting on the couch with the living room doorway behind him—harder to think about escaping if he can’t see his escape route, right?

Patton is far too good at manipulating situations.

“You mind if we talk a minute?” Patton asks, and there’s a smile on his mouth but something serious in his eyes and Virgil feels a sliver (i.e. a fucking boatload) of fear shoot through his stomach. 

“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“Hey hey, same.” Patton beams and points finger-guns at him and Virgil can do nothing but stare, baffled. He enjoys Patton’s personality and jokes (adores them, really) but there are some things that go over even his head. Luckily, Patton takes it in stride, drops his hands, and adds, “I mean, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What’s up with you?”

“Oh. I, uh—nothing, really. Just. Y’know. Normal stuff.”

“What about all of the touching?”

Virgil flinches, and he feels heat spreading rapidly from his throat to the tips of his ears. “I—what—what’re you talking about?”

“The touching. You know—you’ve been touching me a lot more than usual. I was just wondering why, and if there’s—if there’s anything I can do to make it easier. I’ve been trying to match you, but I know I’m not very good at keeping pace with people, heh,” Patton says, offering Virgil a lopsided smile. “So what do you want from me? Anything I can do?”

A part of Virgil instantly wants to retreat—to shut down, to pretend nothing ever happened, to seek safety in ignoring the problem. But a larger (hungrier, needier) part of him refuses. Here’s Patton, warm and soft and good, offering to help Virgil. What kind of an idiot would he be to refuse? 

(It may also be because—because Patton’s worth the risk, he’s worth the tattered, useless thing that is Virgil’s trust, damn it.)

“I—I dunno. The touching, it’s—it’s nice?” Virgil says, ducking his head. “I can stop if you want, though, we don’t have to—”

“No, no, no, not at all, kiddo. It is nice. It’s really nice. I don’t want to stop unless you do. In fact—” Patton shuffles closer to him and bumps their knees together. “In fact, I’m glad this is happening. It’s really nice to see you reaching out, taking steps to get what you need, what you want—and if that’s, I dunno, touching, then—”

Virgil’s blush cannot  _ possibly  _ become any hotter. “That’s—yeah, thanks, that’s—I mean I don’t  _ want  _ you to touch me, obviously—”

The look that flashes across Patton’s face is a blend of hurt and horror. “You mean I was—I was—you didn’t want me to—”

“No,  _ no,  _ you didn’t do anything wrong,” Virgil says, his heart twisting. He can’t bear to see Patton in distress, even if it’s only for a few seconds. “I was lying, that was a lie.”

“What? Why? Lying’s bad.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is. I’m sorry. I—I do like it when you do the whole, um—the touching thing. I just—it’s stupid.”

“No it’s not,” Patton says, his voice firm. “Wanting things isn’t stupid.”

Virgil squirms uncomfortably under his gaze. “Yeah, okay, but—okay.”

“Is it sexual?”

Virgil nearly chokes on his own tongue.  _ “What?” _

“Is it sex—”

“No, god, I heard what you said, I just—you know what sex is?”

Patton stares at fondly at him. “I know I’m naive, but I’m not completely ignorant, hon. I  _ am  _ a part of Thomas. I’m there for everything he’s there for.”

“Okay, let’s not talk about that now—or, um, ever, but—no, I don’t think it’s sexual. I just want—I don’t know.” He just wants fucking shoulder-pats and ruffled hair and hugs. Stupid shit. “I don’t know, man.”

“Okay,” Patton says, simply. “Do you want to figure it out together?”

Virgil hesitates—does he? But—but this is Patton, and in the end, despite all of Virgil’s irrational fears, he _does_ trust Patton. So he takes a deep breath and nods his head down, staring hard at the carpet. He wants to figure it out. He wants to get rid of this stupid longing, and if Patton can help him do it, then—yeah. Okay.

“Fantastic,” Patton says, and Virgil glances at him he’s smiling—gentle and sweet and perfect. He holds up an arm, inviting Virgil to curl against his side. “Wanna watch some Netflix?”

Virgil can think of a million scathing things to say, but—Netflix and chill? really?—but this is Patton, and he can’t fathom wanting to hurt Patton. So, instead, he gingerly inches himself underneath Patton’s arm. It comes to rest across his shoulders, heavy and warm. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be fun.” 

And it was. It is. Patton makes it a point to touch him whenever he can, whether it’s a simple pat on the back or a night spend curled together on the sofa, and Virgil laps it up and is so deliriously happy that he almost can’t bother to feel embarrassed. Almost. But every day, Patton pushes it further, and he always fucking  _ asks  _ first.

“What do you think about holding hands tonight?” or “Do you wanna maybe cuddle?” or “I could play with your hair. You like that, right?” 

It’s awful and embarrassing and Virgil gets the stupidest butterflies in his stomach whenever it happens—which is a goddamn lot. On the bright side, he thinks that it can’t possibly become any more humiliating. 

And then, somehow, it does.

They’re curled up on the couch—Virgil is in Patton’s lap, his arms around Patton’s neck, paying the movie in the background as little attention as he can. He’s far more focused on what Patton is doing. His heart’s hands have slipped underneath his shirt and are moving up and down his back in slow, firm strokes. Every few minutes he’ll switch to lightly trailing his fingernails over the knobs of Virgil’s spine, and Virgil is quite sure he’s never been happier.

And then Patton pauses, leaving only one hand to scratch gently between Virgil’s shoulders. “Verge?” he asks.

Virgil hums in response, nuzzling into Patton’s neck and maybe, just maybe, arching his back a little bit in an attempt to get Patton’s hands to resume their movement. 

“I’ve been thinking—”

_ That  _ jerks Virgil out of his peaceful, warm thoughts rather quickly. Is Patton going to tell him they can’t keep doing this? That’s he’s too annoying and needy and—

“Hey, easy there, champ. It’s nothing bad. Relax.” One of Patton’s hands comes up to rest on the back of his neck, firmly kneading the muscle there until Virgil slumps and allows his head to drop against Patton’s shoulder again. “There we go. I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you wanted. Guessing is all well and good, but I’d rather hear it straight from you, y’know?”

Virgil doesn’t see why it matters. He’s happy with whatever Patton suggests, quite honestly. He’s lucky to have anything at all. “‘m okay with whatever,” he says.

“But what do you  _ want?” _

“Anything,” Virgil says, simply, and it’s true. It doesn’t seem to satisfy Patton, though.

“Okay. Here, sit up.” Patton nudges him gently until he’s sat, then he takes his hands away and leaves Virgil confused and wary and floundering. “What do you want me to do right now?”

“I don’t—I said anything,” Virgil says. “Are you stopping? Are we stopping? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, honey, we’re not stopping—not unless you want to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay. So tell me what you want me to do, please.”

“I—why?” Virgil asks, pulling nervously on his hoodie’s drawstrings.

“Because communication is important,” Patton says, smiling gently at him. “I want you to feel comfortable asking for what you want.”

“I—you—touch?” Virgil asks, his face hot—he wants to hide it against Patton’s shoulder again, but he doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to.

“Mm-hm. Where?”

Virgil looks anywhere but Patton’s face—his eyes are too earnest, too focused, for Virgil to bear. “Back.”

“Under your shirt or over it?”

“Under.”

Patton’s hands slip under his shirt, palms warm against his skin, and he pulls Virgil forward to slump against him once more. “Now what?”

“Move?” Virgil asks, and he’s trembling—why is he trembling? “Like before?”

It’s a cop-out, maybe, but Patton doesn’t seem to mind. His hands resume stroking along Virgil’s back and he hums happily, saying, “Good job, Virgil. Thank you.”

Virgil is too busy wallowing in embarrassment to respond. Luckily, Patton doesn’t ask him what he wants  _ every  _ time—but he does it a lot more than Virgil would like. Wanting things feels like an inconvenience, no matter what Patton says, and  _ saying  _ what he wants feels even worse. He’s probably just bothering Patton. He’s weird. What he wants is weird.

And yet, Patton just won’t stop asking.

“What do you want tonight?” he asks, one evening. They’re in his bed, Virgil on his back and Patton straddling his hips, his weight heavy and solid and comforting.

Virgil, who has become unfortunately used to the question, grumbles wordlessly at him.

“Come on, sweetheart, you know the drill.” Patton’s smile is caught somewhere between fondness and amusement.

“Stomach.”

Patton cocks his head and looks at Virgil’s stomach. “Yes, you have one.”

Virgil groans. “That’s not even—that’s terrible.”

“Hm? I think it’s pretty cute.”

“That’s not what I meant either.” Virgil scowls petulantly at him, ignoring the way his face is rapidly heating up.

“No? Then what did you mean?”

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut and forces the words through gritted teeth, “Touch my stomach, please.”

“Of course,” Patton says, and Virgil can hear the smile in his voice.

Warm hands come to splay across his belly, fingers scratching gently at the spaces between his ribs—not enough to tickle, but enough to make Virgil shudder in pleasure. When he cracks an eye open, Patton is watching him with an unbearably tender expression, and Virgil’s heart aches for—for  _ something. _

“Can I—Pat, I—” he starts, then stumbles off. It’s stupid. What if Patton says no? (Or worse, again, what if he wants to say no and he doesn’t?)

“Can you what?” Patton asks, moving one hand up to cup Virgil’s face, thumb sweeping lightly over his cheekbone.

Virgil hesitates, then covers Patton’s hand with his own and says, “Can I touch you? I mean—not if you don’t want me too, obviously, that would be really shitty but I was just wondering, because you’re always doing this and I’m not—”

“Verge, honey.” Patton lowers himself to lay completely on top of Virgil, crossing his arms across Virgil’s chest and resting his chin on them. “I’m doing this because I want to, not because I want something out of it.”

Virgil frowns at him. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I do get something out of it, of course—I get to see you happy.” Patton beams at him, and Virgil has to fight back the shy smile that wants to creep across his face in response. “Even if I didn’t get that, though, it really would be fine. I don’t mind.”

Virgil lets his eyes skitter away from Patton’s, focusing on a spot in the corner of the room instead. “I just—I want to, if that’s not—if  _ you  _ want me to, I’d really like to do—um, to do that. Maybe.”

Patton is quiet for a minute, and then he chuckles and leans forward, nuzzling his nose against Virgil’s. “You can certainly touch me, if that’s what you want. Thank you for telling me.”

Virgil doesn’t respond—god, why does Patton always make him  _ blush  _ so much?—but brings his hands up to rest on Patton’s sides. Patton ducks his head and nudges it up beneath Virgil’s chin, humming happily as Virgil strokes gently down his back. 

“Better?” Patton asks, his voice warm and steady.

Virgil scratches his fingernails through the soft, chick-down hairs at the nape of Patton’s neck. Better? Yeah. Yeah, it’s better. He’s better.That awful hunger that coiled inside of his chest for so long has eased. The want hasn’t disappeared—and now he doubts it ever will—but it’s not such a horrible thing anymore, not when he has Patton. So—

“Yeah,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of Patton’s head. “Better. Thank you.”


End file.
